


safer space

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranoia, Season/Series 02, Stalking, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fisting, alternate universe - kink store
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: After recovering from his brush with Prentiss and becoming more and more worried for his safety, Jon keeps finding himself at a kink store run by Martin. Surely something's afoot.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Martin Blackwood/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 169
Kudos: 386





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the people in the TMA writers discord for discussion and handholding! Especially to Zykaben and Bloodsbane for looking over SPAG. 
> 
> Additional warnings and notes in end notes.

The rain is coming down in great icy sheets, sliding down Jon's neck despite his efforts to keep his coat clutched close. Of all the days to forget his scarf, not to mention his umbrella.... No matter. Soon he'll be at the tube station, which will at least be dry.

That thought propels him until he reaches the station, as well as the sign in bold letters saying, _Closed for repairs_. Jon stares at it, as if an insistent enough glare will cause the letters to rearrange themselves to assure him the station is in fact open, and apologize for the inconvenience.

Of course, the only thing that happens is that Jon's glasses are entirely covered in droplets, rendering him effectively blind. He squints around for a coffee shop, a restaurant, a pub, any establishment that might be open at this hour. Anything, so long as he could take out his phone to get a taxi. The street around him is entirely dark. It's not a very lively environment past midnight.

One window, however, is lit. Jon marches towards it, hoping against all odds that they will let him in.

He's deliberating whether to knock when the door opens, nearly braining him in the process. A yelp sounds, and the person who opened the door staggers a few steps back. "Oh my goodness, you scared the shit out of me. Are you alright? No, of course you aren't, you're drenched. Please, come in." The owner of the voice all but drags Jon inside.

"I don't mean to be any trouble," Jon mumbles. The blurs he can see look a little like shelves with objects on them. Perhaps he's stumbled into a store of some description.

"Oh, shush, nobody should be outside on a night like this. Were you hoping to take the tube? Never mind, don't answer that. Here." Jon is manhandled into an overstuffed chair. "How d'you take your tea?"

"Milk and two sugars," Jon says, stunned into compliance by the barrage of words.

"I won't be a moment. Oh, and you'll want something to clean your glasses; here." A piece of fabric lands itself in Jon's hand. He gratefully takes off his glasses to wipe them.

When he puts them back on, a glance affirms that these are indeed shelves displaying wares around him. Now that he can see, however, he notes that the wares are of a... particular kind. Just left of where Jon is sitting, a giant purple dildo is staring him in the face.

Well. At least that settles the question of what the hell kind of shop is open at these hours.

Jon eyes the door, longing for escape. He can hear the shop owner bustling about, though, presumably making the aforementioned tea. Manners hold him down as effectively as the restraints he sees on the shelves to the right of him.

Finally, the shop owner returns: a white man with a mop of reddish hair, tall and bulky, with a mug of tea and an extremely friendly expression for someone who's had a random walk-in at God knows when in the AM.

For lack of anything better to do, Jon picks up the mug. It has frolicking ducklings in various colours. "Thank you." He takes a sip, eager to drink and be on his way, expecting it to taste foul. It does not. "This is good."

The man beams at him. "Thank you! I'm Martin. This fine establishment is Pandora's. We're normally not open this late, but we host a shibari workshop on the second floor every fortnight."

"I see," Jon says, awkward as ever. "Well, thank you for the tea, ah, Martin, but I really must call a taxi now."

"Of course! Of course. Here," Martin fumbles in a bin next to Jon. "Take an umbrella, hm? Just in case the taxi takes a while to arrive. I'd let you stay until then but I really should be closing, sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for." Jon summons a taxi, walks outside and opens the umbrella, which is the collapsible sort, blue with white dots. He doesn't have to wait long. Nevertheless, it's a welcome gesture.

It's only when he gets home and into bed that Jon realizes: he'll have to return this umbrella at some point. Which, presumably, means returning to the... to Pandora's. He leaves the umbrella by the door, laying it down with care. One can never be too cautious.

* * *

For the next three days, Jon keeps forgetting the umbrella is there and stumbling over it as he leaves the flat. Every time he curses and promises himself he'll take it to the store the next day.

After three days, he finally puts it on a shelf, and promptly forgets about it for the next two weeks. He has a lot on his mind.

The memory of the umbrella resurges as Jon reads a statement by Sarah Sinclair, regarding her... no point being shy about it: regarding her mummification fetish. Sinclair's anecdote is outlandish, but to Jon's discomfort, won't record digitally. 

A little detail catches his attention as he nears the end of the statement. As Sinclair describes finally leaving the partner who managed to make her feel buried alive in an airy room - a metaphor for abuse, perhaps, if Jon wants to delude himself for a moment longer - she refers to finding a new community based around a kink shop called Pandora's. 

As Ms. Sinclair left little by way of contact information, it seems Jon has little choice but to visit there again. He might as well return the umbrella if he's at it.

* * *

At home, Jon spends an embarrassingly long time inspecting the umbrella. He wracks his brain, imagining the last two weeks and trying to deduce whether there'd been a change to his behavior, environment, anything which could be explained by a malicious item. Being mentioned in a real statement meant the odds that Pandora's was a simple kink shop were slim to none.

And then there was the person minding the shop. Martin. Was he the proprietor? Or merely hired help? What stake could he have in the grand game that Jon found himself embroiled in?

Two hours later, the umbrella mocks him from the floor. Jon rises on shaky legs and wipes his clammy hands on his trousers. He might as well go to sleep. (He doesn't sleep. This isn't a surprise.)

* * *

Jon knows he needs to be careful. Ingratiating, even, inasmuch as he knows how to be. Make sure Martin doesn't suspect that Jon's onto his game, whatever it is. He enters the store, wincing at an electronic bell announcing his arrival.

Any attempt at subtlety is ruined; as soon as Jon approaches the counter, Martin takes one look at him and says, "When's the last time you slept?"

Jon blinks at him. Caught off-guard, he finds a refuge in honesty. "Had a nap yesterday afternoon."

Eyes narrowed, Martin asks, "How many hours have you slept in the past three days?"

Jon tries tallying it up, but then he remembers. "That's none of your concern."

Something complicated moves in Martin's face, but he nods. "Suppose not. Sorry. I'm a bit of a busybody... Anyway, you're quite right, you didn't come here to be interrogated on your sleep schedule. Or lack thereof. How can I help you today?"

Jon swallows. Right. "Are you familiar with one Sarah Sinclair? Does she frequent this," he hesitates, "establishment?"

A look of suspicion returns to Martin's face. "I really can't say. I don't know the names of every one of my clients. Discretion is very important in this business; I'm sure you understand."

Jon looks at this man, who offered him shelter from a storm and asked whether he slept, and says, "She might be in danger."

Martin stills. "Is that the case?" He considers. "I'm afraid I still can't tell you. But you can leave a message with me, and if I come across someone with that name, I'll pass it on." He gives Jon an expectant look.

After short deliberation, Jon takes out his business card. He'd had them made when he got his current position; so far he's given away three. "Tell her to contact me. Please."

Martin's expression is distressingly neutral. "If she comes here, I'll let her know you were interested."

Awkwardly, Jon makes his escape. It's only when he's on the tube home that he realizes he's still holding the goddamned umbrella.

* * *

The next time Jon comes by Pandora's, he doesn't have the umbrella with him. He doesn't even know he's going there. 

He is, not to put too fine a point on it, following Tim. Which, yes, he knows that's a bad idea, _thank_ you. He's all but certain Tim isn't the murderer. But there is the tiny, niggling doubt that eats at him all the same. 

When Tim steps into a store, Jon follows two minutes behind. He probably should stay outside and wait, but what if the place has more than one exit?

It's only when he sees a familiar purple dildo that Jon realizes where he is. This is a secondary problem at the moment, the primary one being getting the hell out before Tim can see Jon followed him to a sex shop. 

There's a twisting flight of stairs in the middle of the floor, going up and down. Jon speedily walks to it, up it, praying Tim won't look up. 

At the end of the stairs, there's a room featuring more arcane implements, and a door, in front of which a bored-looking goth teen sits. Jon checks his blank knuckles for eye tattoos, and hates himself a little. 

"Here for the demo?" the goth asks. 

There are steps on the metal staircase. In a split-second decision, Jon says, "Yes." He pays the fee the goth requests with shaking fingers, slipping inside as the steps come closer.

Inside the room there are rows on rows of chairs, a few occupied, and Jon hurries until he finds the one furthest from the door and sits there. In front of him there is a little raised stage with a piece of furniture on it that looks like a picnic table, except padded in black vinyl all around. 

People start trickling in, the room filling up with quiet chatter. Jon does his best to stay inconspicuous while sitting ramrod straight in his chair. 

Finally, two people go up to the stage: Martin, clad in a fluffy terry robe, and some white guy in jeans and a T-shirt. Martin waits a few minutes before clapping his hands. "Settle down! Demo's about to begin." Then he looks straight at Jon. His eyebrows rise, but he seems... cautiously pleased?

Jon was never good at reading expressions. Also, it just occurred to him to worry what this was a demo _of_.

"So, hi everyone! I'm Martin Blackwood, and I own this joint." Faint laughter rings in the audience, and a few sparse claps. "My lovely assistant is Quentin." Quentin waves sheepishly. "And today we're going to learn about vaginal fisting."

Jon's brain grinds into an abrupt halt.

A distant part of Jon still registers as Martin sits down on the table part of the picnic-table-like thing, his legs spread, feet on opposite benches. He takes off his robe to reveal a plain black binder. He is otherwise bare. The way the table is positioned, everyone in the audience - and Jon in particular - are treated to the full view of his... vulva, Jon supposes would be a good enough term, since Martin apparently used _vaginal_ to refer to his own parts. 

"When you're with someone on T - that's testosterone, for those of you not in the know - it's important to note that sometimes the local slick supply isn't sufficient. But you know what they say: store bought is fine. My advice is to use lots and lots of lube even when the local facilities are on maximum production. Can't hurt."

Jon doesn't pick up most of what's said after that. His eyes are fixed on Martin, as his assistant begins to finger him. Jon half wants to crawl under his chair with sympathetic embarrassment. Just imagining himself like this, his own parts on display... how can Martin stand it?

Apparently he can not only stand it, he can keep up running commentary with only mild hitches in his breath as four fingers slide in and out of his vagina.

"Now, bear in mind that I'm pretty experienced," Martin says, penetrating (oh God, why did he have to _think_ that word) through Jon's mental fog. "Don't worry if it takes you longer to build up your stretchiness, and never force it. You can do yourself real damage by trying." He turns to look at Quentin and says, "Alright, I'm ready."

As Quentin's thumb pushes into Martin's hole, Jon's heart is beating triple time. He can't look away, can't believe it'll fit, half convinced this will all end horribly. Quentin moves, slowly, slowly, and Martin gasps. 

Quentin's thumb pops in. Jon still can't breathe. 

"The knuckles," Martin says, face gone red with exertion, "are the broadest part, so extra careful with those. Once they're in...." As if on cue, Quentin's hand slides in to the wrist. "Ah. Yes, that's better. Once they're in, it's easy sailing."

Those are all the words Jon can make sense of. The others fly past his ears, lingering only long enough to be recognized as human speech. Instead, he is listening to the slick sounds made by Quentin's hand inside Martin's hole, staring wide-eyed at how red it is, how _wet_. He's never seen a human being take this much. He's heard, academically, that people did this, but he isn't sure he ever really believed it. It's a lot. 

Then, fairly soon, Quentin sets about extracting his hand. He's careful and slow, but it's still a quicker process than putting it in. Quentin leaves the stage, presumably to wash his hands, and Martin remains sitting but puts his robe back on. Any concluding words he might have go right over Jon's head. 

People start milling out of the room. Jon sits where he is, stunned still. 

"Are you alright?" 

Jon would have liked to say he did not flail, jump away from his folding chair, in the process making it fold and very nearly landing on his arse. That, alas, is exactly what happened.

Martin, still in the robe, raises his hands. "Sorry! Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. You seem a bit tense, is there a problem?"

"N-no, no problem," Jon says, darting glances around him. He doesn't see Tim in the room, thank heavens for small mercies. "I, uh, it was very instructive." 

Martin beams. "I'm glad you think so! It's only my third time doing this demo, so if you have any constructive criticism, bring it on."

"No criticism," Jon says faintly. "Um. Thank you for the information." He sees the way outside is clear and makes for it, dignity be damned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to exmoose for giving input on a pivotal scene. 
> 
> See end notes for particular warnings and disclaimers, let me know if there's any I need to add.

Working late is a fact of life. More so since Jon began doing extra research in order to not die horribly, but even before that he rarely left the office at five. It is, however, exceedingly annoying to stay up until past midnight due to an overdue grant request.

Still, needs must, and Jon does feel some satisfaction at having finished it. He probably should have stayed to sleep in the archives, but he needed to get out. Under the oppressive roof of the Magnus Institute the notion that someone could be lurking in wait for him felt all too real.

It still feels real, out here in the tube station, but lessened. Jon sits down on a bench to wait for the train. Just for a moment.

"Jon?"

He nearly jumps out of his skin. He opens his eyes (when did he shut them?) and sees Martin; for a moment he wonders if he's dreaming, Martin's big friendly form incongruous with the echoing station.

Martin raises his hands and takes a step back. "Sorry! Just, you probably don't want to sleep here."

Jon shakes his head to clear it. Right, this is the closest station to Pandora's, it makes sense that Martin would be here. "Having a late night?" he says, groggy.

"A fairly normal one," Martin says ruefully. "There's always so much to do."

That, Jon relates to. He starts to reply when a train comes into the station, drowning out any attempt at conversation. They both climb onto it. Jon sits down on the first available seat; Martin hesitates. "Do you think if we kept talking, that might help you stay awake?"

"Possibly," Jon says, grudging. Martin sits down across from him.

If pressed, Jon would admit he has no clue what they talked about for the ten minute ride to Jon's stop. He only has flashes of memory featuring Martin's face, chuckling and soft. He's glad to have provided entertainment, he supposes.

"That's me," Jon says, as the train draws to a stop.

"Will you be okay to get home?"

"I'll be fine." Jon tries not to think about how he's stumbling on his way off the car. It's been a difficult week.

Martin gets off at the same place, heading to the same exit as Jon.

Jon halts. "Are you following me?" 

"Just trying to get home," Martin says, something soft underlying his voice. "If it helps, I can wait here a while and let you go on."

That shakes Jon a bit. "No, of course not, don't be silly. It's late. You should be getting home." It's not like Jon won't be listening for footsteps every step of the way as it is.

Outside, it's raining, hitting both their umbrellas in a strong, steady rhythm.

"Oh," Jon realizes, looking at Martin. "Your umbrella. Um, here." He hands it over, open.

"I can't take that!" Martin says, distressed.

Of course he can't. He's already holding an umbrella. Jon tries folding it, and almost falls down when the rain soaks his hair. He's steadied by a hand at his elbow.

"Sorry," Martin says. "Didn't want you to fall down. Jon, please open it again, I don't want you to catch pneumonia."

The prompting helps Jon re-open the umbrella, but a flash of lightning startles him into losing his footing. He's saved by Martin's hand at his elbow again.

"Perhaps I better see you home," Martin suggests.

"Absolutely not," Jon says. He grabs Martin's hand in his own and starts walking. "Well?" he says, when Martin doesn't follow.

There are faint laugh lines on Martin's face, but he comes along.

"I can't have people know where I live," Jon explains. "Take a right here. It's nothing personal, you see - left - just, you know, basic safety. I'm sure you understand."

"I'm sure I do," Martin says. Jon isn't certain why he sounds so amused. 

Finally they arrive at Jon's building. Martin rides the elevator with him. At Jon's door, he can't quite get to his key.

"It might help if you let go of my hand," Martin offers.

That does the trick. Jon unlocks his door and walks inside.

Martin says, "Oh, you wanted to--"

His voice is cut off by Jon closing the door. Bed. He needs to go to bed now.

* * *

Jon sleeps right past his alarm and wakes up obscenely late, the still-open umbrella waiting on the floor next to his bed like an accusation. "Crap," Jon says, and bangs his head gently against the closest wall.

Right. This has gone far enough.

* * *

To Jon's relief, Pandora's is open when he gets there. It's also not raining, but he has a second collapsible umbrella in his bag as backup. He walks up to the counter and lays Martin's umbrella on it, a tad too forcefully.

"...Yes?" says the man at the counter who, Jon registers too late, is not Martin.

"Oh." Jon swallows. "Um. Martin lent me this, and I wanted to return it."

"He's not here," says the man, whom Jon now recognizes as the person who waited at the door to the demo, the one who isn't Gerard. "He's seeing to something in the basement, we're not supposed to interrupt."

"I see," Jon says slowly. He doesn't quite hear what the man says as he takes the cursed umbrella and leaves.

It's only when he's at the office when he realizes that not-Gerard said, "You could leave it here." Fuck.

He will get that umbrella back to Martin if it's the last thing he does.

* * *

Google reveals that Pandora's closes at eight today. There is no reason Jon can't make it there in time. He'll go on his lunch break.

He raises his head from his work, and it's quarter till eight. He curses and packs in a hurry.

When he gets there, it's two minutes to closing time. The light is still on. Jon bursts in, feeling like an utter prick. "Sorry," he says, as he makes his way, panting, to the counter. He makes sure to look, and here Martin is, large hands sorting bills.

"I'm afraid we're-- Jon?"

Red with mortification, Jon says, "Right, I just came to return the umbrella."

Martin's face brightens. "Oh! Well, I'm very glad to see you. Would you wait a minute? I'll finish counting up and you can come in for tea, if you like."

"Of course," Jon says slowly. He's not sure what he did to merit the offer, but refusing seems churlish.

As Martin finishes up, Jon idly looks at the cork board near the entrance, where many flyers are pinned up: many for workshops and demos for stuff Jon has only peripherally heard of (what on Earth is a violet wand?), but some on topics that seem unrelated: there's a trans support group meeting on Wednesdays, apparently, and a workshop on overcoming white fragility scheduled for the end of the month. Among all of these, unobtrusive, hangs a flyer advertising a workshop on "Magic words: inductions to warp the mind."

"You host a lot of events," Jon says, when Martin finishes up at the register.

Martin makes a noncommittal noise and gestures Jon to the back of the shop. The kitchenette is tiny, enough so that Jon can't enter while Martin makes the tea, but there are some seats near the shoe display. It contains some fairly intimidating heels.

Once theyr'e both sat with tea in their hands, Martin says, "Anything on the board catch your eye?"

Jon clears his throat. "The 'magic words' one seemed... intriguing." More accurately, it seemed suspicious. It could, of course, be some harmless new age nonsense, but given Jon's life the odds of that seem slim.

"Ah, yes. The hypnokink workshop," Martin says. "It's mostly for people who are familiar with hypno basics, though, so if you're not experienced I'd offer the beginner workshop. We're supposed to host one next month."

"I... see." Jon takes a sip of his tea and rallies his thoughts. It's as good as it was last time, and the quiet of the shop is soothing. On impulse, he says, "I'm afraid I don't know much about anything. Is there a good place to start?"

Martin's face lights up. "Loads," he says earnestly. "I could send you some resources if you give me your email, and we have several books if printed's more up your alley."

Jon drinks a bit more. There's something going on with this place, he just knows it. All he needs is a good reason to hang around and see what's what. "Maybe another workshop," he temporizes.

"Oh, in that case we have rope for beginners on Sunday. Shall I pencil you in?"

"Do that." Recklessness carries Jon forward. "And... the trans support group, perhaps." It sounds like a terrible idea. He is certain he will abhor the experience. But he knows Martin is trans, which feels unbalanced when the knowledge doesn't go both ways, and that seems a decent way to bring that up.

Martin nods. "RIght, of course. One minute." He goes behind the counter to fish a piece of paper and a pen, which he hands to Jon. "Your email?"

Jon scribbles his personal email, biting his lip. He's a little lightheaded.

Martin thanks him. Jon says, "No, thank _you_ ," with some slight discomfort.

He makes his way outside. He is two steps away when he remembers the umbrella. He looks back, sighs, and continues. Sod the bloody umbrella, anyway.

* * *

Jon shows up half an hour early for the rope workshop. He figures he'll spend the time browsing the shop and hope any extra inquisitiveness comes off as the curiosity of a novice.

It is, in fact, rather fascinating. Jon pulls his phone out and looks up the words he sees on the labels (he now knows what a violet wand is and has no wish to be further acquainted), splitting his attention between the words on the screen and the physical objects before him. He is distracted enough that he nearly doesn't notice a familiar voice asking, "Martin, could we have a word?"

Jon freezes. He looks up slowly and sees Tim, next to the counter, glaring at him. Martin looks at both of them, sighs, and tells Tim, "Of course, but I'm afraid we can't use the room upstairs if you want privacy. They're setting up for the workshop." He looks at Tim again, and his expression changes. "Of course, I could go up and ask them to give us a moment."

"That won't be necessary," Tim says. His tone is venomous. " _I_ don't have anything to hide." He jerks his head at Jon. "That's my boss. He's been stalking me."

Martin's face hardens. "I see." He turns to Jon, none of the previous friendliness evident in his face. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Of course," Jon says numbly. He will go. He will go as soon as he can figure out how to make his legs move. "I'm sorry. I, I--"

"Oh, _now_ you're sorry," Tim says with a sneer.

"I'm sorry as well," Martin tells Tim. "Thank you for telling me. I know that's not always easy."

Tim's breath hitches. "No. You know what? He can stay, I'm going. I'm--" he breaks off.

Martin stands there, impossibly solid. "Whatever makes you feel better. If you want, you could stay and have some tea once Jon leaves." The last few words are rather pointed. Jon flinches and starts walking.

"Alright," Tim says. "I'll stay if he stays."

Jon pauses, entirely uncertain of what's happening.

Martin looks similarly perplexed. "It's okay. You don't have to be around him."

Tim waves him off, so frustrated even Jon can easily tell. "Fuck that. I have to be around him every day. Might as well have it out with him."

Thus Jon finds himself again sat near the shoe isle with a cup of tea in his hands. Not-Gerard is minding the counter while Martin sits with Jon and Tim.

Tim speaks first, to flatly tell Jon, "You're a piece of shit." Jon cringes but doesn't argue. There doesn't seem to be a point. "I understand you're scared, I know what you went through," Tim says, "but that doesn't justify what you did. At all."

Martin glances between them. "Do you want to tell me more about what happened?"

"Bad shit at work," Tim says shortly. Gestures at his face and Jon's. "That's how we got these scars. Trust me, you don't want to know. Afterwards, Jon here went apeshit. I think he thought I was trying to poison him or something. Ended up stalking me. Other employees too."

Martin nods. "I'm sorry. That sounds terrible."

Tim rakes a hand through his hair. "Yes, it fucking was."

Martin turns to Jon. His voice is carefully neutral. "Jon, do you have any empirical evidence that someone's trying to hurt you?"

Jon draws on himself. He remembers feeling suspicion, bright and urgent, _knowing_ something was happening and digging everywhere he could until he found it. But in the warm light of the shop, it feels... immaterial. "No," he says finally. "I didn't have reasonable cause to suspect you, Tim. I'm sorry."

"Damn right you are," Tim says sourly, but his posture softens a bit. He sighs and tells Martin, "Look, he's got issues. I don't think he'll hurt anyone, if that's what you're worried about. I just figured you should know."

"We all have issues," Martin says, thoughtful. "That's not a reason to stalk people." He stares at Jon. "Are you sorry, though? Or just sorry you were caught?"

Jon swallows. He forces himself to give this serious thought. "I am," he says, finally, heavily.

"Apologies aren't enough, but they're a start." Martin turns to Tim. "If you feel unsafe with him around, I will tell him to leave and not come back, no questions asked. This is my community, and it matters to me that we prioritize safety."

Tim snorts. "I work with him and neither of us can quit. I have to live with him either way. Maybe if he gets some help he'll be less of a miserable bastard."

Martin nods. "What I said stands, Tim, and will stand in the future. Just say the word." He exhales. "That said - a lot of communities can be harsher on trans people and people of color for transgressions that cis white people get away with. I don't want that in my community." 

“Fair enough,” Tim says. With a brightness that almost seems genuine, he says, “I think I’ll go help them out upstairs.”

Jon is about to get up as well, but he’s halted by Martin softly asking him, “Would you stay another moment?”

“Thank you,” Martin says when Jon settles back into his chair. “Listen.” He looks around the shop, which is fairly empty; some people are coming in, but they’re heading directly upstairs. Not-Gerard is fiddling with his phone. “I don’t know you very well. But if you’re scared of things that don’t make sense…” he gives a mirthless chuckle. “That’s not a fun place to be, is it? I should know.”

Jon shrugs, not sure how to respond.

“I have the names of some good counsellors,” Martin says carefully. 

Jon looks up sharply. “You’ll let me stay if I get therapy?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Martin says. “As long as you’re not hurting anyone else, and Tim’s okay with it, you’re welcome. But like I said: it’s not a good place to be. If you’d rather not do therapy, I can think of a few other ideas I can offer.” He considers, then finds a piece of paper and scribbles a number on it. “That’s my mobile. If you need anything, even if I can’t have you here because Tim asked me to ban you - I’ll do what I can to help.”

Heart in his throat, Jon asks, “Why are you offering me this?”

Martin takes a sip of his tea. “I have some authority in this community. If I don’t use it to offer help, what am I even doing here?”

Jon nods. He starts to get up.

“One more thing,” Martin says. “If you still want to participate in the workshop, I could partner with you. I know the ropes.” He laughs a little, self-conscious. 

To Jon’s surprise, he finds himself saying, “I’d like that.”

His legs feel weak; climbing up the stairs, he is a little glad of Martin’s size behind him. He’s pretty sure Martin won’t let him fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Discussion of whether a mentally ill character is dangerous (following him stalking another person)


	3. Chapter 3

There's a new person at the door to the upstairs room, nobody Jon recognizes. She checks Jon's name on a list and takes the entrance fee. "That's really not much," Jon mutters as they walk into the room. "You keep the store afloat with that kind of money?"

Martin hums noncommittally. "We manage. Oh, there's a few folks I want to say hi to, would you like to be introduced?" Jon shakes his head and shrinks into himself. "Will you be alright by yourself if I go to them?"

Jon rolls his eyes. "I'm not a child. I can take care of myself."

Martin nods and goes to talk animatedly to a couple in matching black t-shirts. Jon settles in the corner and watches the room.

Instead of the rows of chairs from before, there's only one row near the door. The rest of the room is taken up by yoga mats . There's a table at the side with ropes in different colors. Jon gravitates there, curious despite himself. There were ropes on display in the store itself, but they were all neatly bagged.

Martin materializes again by Jon's side. "Check out the texture differences," Martin says. "There's synthetic," he picks up one sleek rope in rainbow colors, "I like the feel but it doesn't hold a knot very well; hemp," a natural color one, "good balance between sensation and easiness for beginners, at least if you ask me; and jute." The jute rope is red and a bit rough on Jon's fingers. "I'm personally allergic, it makes me itch. If I'm getting tied up today, I vote you take the hemp."

Jon does, with nerveless fingers. "You prefer to be tied up?"

Martin shrugs. "I like either. I assumed you'd want to learn how to do the tying up, but whatever you'd rather do is fine."

As comfortable and safe as the shop feels, Jon must keep vigilant. "I'd like to do the tying, if that's alright with you."

"Of course." Martin looks to the raised platform at the room's other end. "They're starting. We better go if you want to join." He hesitates, and carefully adds, "It's alright if you'd rather just watch and not participate at all."

Jon considers. He looks at the chairs; nobody else is sitting, and he doesn't want to rouse suspicion. Besides, knowing knots might come in handy. "I'll do it."

The presenter walks them through single- and double-column knots. Martin is very helpful as Jon works, reminding him of the instructions as Jon winds rope around his forearms.

If Jon's honest, it's very odd to be touching someone like that. Martin's in short sleeves, so Jon's fingers rest on freckled skin, touching fine gingery hair. Jon almost wants to stroke it, to determine whether it's as soft as it looks, but of course that would be completely inappropriate.

The class is doing some kind of chest harness today. Jon pauses and looks at Martin. "Are you going to be okay?"

Martin thinks for a moment, makes a face, and says, "Do you want to do a leg tie instead? I can tell you how to do it. Or if you really want to do the chest harness, I'm sure I can ask someone else to partner with you."

"A leg tie is fine." They both sit down on one of the yoga mats. Martin bends one leg towards himself and instructs Jon to start at the ankle, encouraging him as he goes. "You're doing great. Now wind it around my leg again, yeah, like that, and now cinch."

Jon had some worries that someone might take exception to him doing a different tie, or that he'd be confused by the different sets of instructions, but nobody says anything and it's easy to keep his focus on Martin. Lose himself, a little, in the way rope interacts with Martin's body, Jon's hands, and itself.

Finally, Martin's leg is tied all tied up; "Fotomomo," Martin calls it. Jon takes a moment to admire the ropes, how they interlace, how comfortable Martin seems in them. "It looks good on you," Jon says without thinking.

Martin's pleased smile hits him where he doesn't expect it. "Thank you," Martin says. "It feels good, too." He hesitates, but says, "Would you like a turn getting tied up?" Jon shakes his head. "Do you want to try to do the other leg?"

This involves Martin shuffling slightly to a better position. Martin still has to guide Jon through the knotwork, but now Jon's catching a bit of intuition about where the rope ought to go next. It's relaxing. Hypnotic, almost: nothing to interrupt his focus, Martin's soft instructions merging with the flow of his mind, not derailing it.

Then he's done, Martin kneeling with both legs tied. Satisfaction blooms in Jon's chest. It's just so tidy, the regular lines of the knots pleasing to the eye and mind.

He's startled by quiet laughter. He raises his eyes to see Martin looking a little sheepish. "Sorry. You seem to be enjoying yourself, please don't let me distract you."

Jon looks back down, sees his hands resting comfortably on Martin's thigh, and jerks back so abruptly he almost falls down. "Sorry," he says, not certain what he's apologizing for.

"It's fine." Martin's voice is gentle enough that Jon both wants to and can't bristle at it. "You asked, and I said you could; you can. You're alright."

In mortification, not knowing where to look, Jon shuts his eyes. He withdraws, sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up and his arms around them. He feels horribly exposed. Or... no, that's not quite it. He feels like he _ought_ to feel exposed; there's that space in his mind, used to feeling watched, criticised, dissected. But he hears the noises of the room around him, people attending to their own work, and the knowledge that someone is looking at him just isn't there.

Well, with the exception of Martin. Who asks, "Jon?" tentatively.

Jon forces himself to breathe deep. "Thank you," he says. "Is it okay if I untie you now?"

"It's fine," Martin says. He waits patiently as Jon steels himself to go back into it, to get within touching range of another human being for the first time in... in....

He doesn't want to think about it.

Undoing the ropes doesn't take long. Martin waves off Jon's attempts to put them back into neat coils. "I'll sort it. If you need to go, you can."

Jon nods numbly and flees as quickly as he can.

* * *

"Statement ends," Jon says, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. He hits the recorder's button without looking, a skill he's unfortunately honed over the last few months. 

His eyes fly open, he sits ramrod straight, and checks his phone. He curses when he sees the time. The last train passed fifteen minutes ago. He groans and sags again, letting his head fall back. Christ, he's _tired_. 

Sleeping on the cot in document storage has not been the same, since Prentiss. For one, he can't really sleep, spending the night in mute expectation of the walls collapsing in a shower of worms. If he does manage to snatch some rest, it's quickly broken up by the image of Gertrude Robinson's body.

Tim's been looking at him today. Which, Jon tells himself, makes sense, since Jon showed up in the same kink shop Tim's been frequenting. After stalking him. This doesn't derail the memory, though, doesn't erase the way Tim turned and talked sotto voce to the new intern from the library. Were they talking about him? They must have been. Is the intern in on whatever Tim's planning? What's her name?

Jon shakes his head forcefully and gets up in an abrupt motion.

In the alley behind the Institute, his shaking hands light up a cigarette. Outside the archives, he feels a little less like something's about to jump at him out of every shadow. He leans against the wall and takes a drag.

He really doesn't have any evidence on Tim. He told Martin that, in the shop. No particular reason to think Tim, of all people, is the one to suspect. But how can he be sure? It had to be someone. How can he exempt Tim from suspicion, just because they went through Prentiss together, just because they used to be friends?

_Did_ they use to be friends?

The feeling is familiar by now: a loop tightening around his brain, drawing tighter with each _what if_ , coiling into itself like an ouroboros. He promised not to follow Tim, but does that really matter compare to, oh, _not getting murdered_? 

It had all seemed so clear in the shop. Jon takes another drag of his cigarette. Tim was just - _Tim_ , there, angry and bitter but a person Jon has known for years. Here and now, the memory of the shop, of Martin, felt drained of color and shrouded by fog. Unreal. 

With his free hand, Jon takes out his phone and stares at a number he'd programmed in. That's just good practice, putting numbers in his mobile as soon as he gets them. Fiddly pieces of paper always get lost the minute he takes his eye off them. It means nothing that he'd put Martin's number in. 

Jon presses the call button, and then immediately almost presses the button to end the call. What is he doing? The phone continues ringing, heedless of Jon's incipient panic. He has to hang up, and he has to hang up now, while he can still excuse it as a pocket dial. 

He remembers Martin's voice, though. Martin's eyes, intent on him, when he said he wanted Jon to call him. Jon... Jon believed him then, and still does.

Which doesn't excuse calling up at who-bloody-knows AM, Jon realizes with a wave of fresh horror. Before he can hang up, though, he hears Martin's voice tinny from the speaker. "Hello?"

Automatic manners pull Jon through. "Hello."

"Who is it?"

Mortification washes over Jon as he croaks out his name. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think how late it is--"

"Hey, no," Martin says, voice gone soft. "I'm awake anyway. Even if I were asleep, I did tell you to call, didn't I? No harm done. What's happening?"

Shame rises up in Jon, displacing his earlier mortification. It's a subtle difference, but it matters. "I've been. Thinking."

"Oh? What about?" Martin sounds perfectly cordial, like near-strangers call him up in the middle of the night all the time, just to chat. For all Jon knows, they do.

"Seeing what Tim's up to," Jon says. "But -- I know I shouldn't. I promised." He cringes. What the hell does he want from Martin, anyway? To be told it's fine to stalk Tim, actually, if he really needed to?

Martin does not say that. Instead he says, "Do you think it'll help?"

Jon closes his eyes. "Feels like it would."

"Mm. Has it helped you before, seeing what he's up to?" Jon has to admit that it hasn't. "Then that doesn't seem like a very good idea, does it? Even putting ethics aside. Why don't we think together about what might help more?"

The man sounds like a bloody social worker. "It might help," Jon grinds out, "if I found out who killed my predecessor."

For a moment, Martin is silent. Then he says, "They were murdered?"

"I don't think multiple bullet wounds count as natural causes, do they?" Jon sucks on his cigarette, exhales, and sighs. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. Yes, she was murdered."

"Do you have any reason to think Tim might have done it?" 

He sounds so carefully nonjudgemental that Jon has to laugh bitterly. "It was someone from the Institute. Had to be. Tim's not any less likely than any of the others."

"I see. That... is something to consider." It sounds like Martin's pacing. "Alright, supposing Tim's the one who did it. Is following him around at night, alone, a good idea?"

The terrible thing is that some part of Jon thinks it is. Better to finally face what outcome might lie in wait for him than keep on this infernal _waiting_. He doesn't want to make Martin worry, though. "Possibly not."

"For tonight," Martin says, "what will make you feel safe? What action could you or I take that will help?"

"I don't think that's an option," Jon grits out.

"Safer," Martin modifies. "Nothing's absolutely safe, I ought to know that. Do you want company?"

Jon recoils from the thought. He wants it, and doesn't want to want it, and it's entirely too much, like eating a rich feast after starving for months. "No. No. I'll be alright. I won't follow Tim."

Martin lets out a long breath. "I believe you. Please don't go around following any other suspected murderers, alright? At least wait until daylight, and have someone know where you're going."

Jon swallows an odd feeling, like shoving through a door that wasn't stuck, or expecting a stair that wasn't there. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that." 

"I'll be up for a bit longer if you need me," Martin says. "If you do, call. Please." 

"I will," Jon says, mostly because he needs the call to be over. He hangs up and takes a desperate drag off his cigarette.

No use trying to sleep. He might as well push through work until morning, then crash at home. Or go to sleep the night after. He'll sleep when he's dead. God knows that probably won't take long, the way things are going.

* * *

_Martin sets down his phone and sighs. He finishes up at the till and descends the stairs to the basement._

_The basement is lit with a single yellow light bulb, dangling off a wire. Martin pauses as a tiny spider scuttles in front of him, giving it a wary look. He walks deeper into the basement, until he's only half lit._

_"I hope we're not going to regret this," he says._

_In the darkness beyond, something shifts, something twists and glistens, and answers too low for a casual ear to catch._

_"Yeah," Martin says, "yeah. I suppose we'll wait and see."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:   
> \- rope workshop  
> \- discussion on stalking and paranoia  
> \- canon typical morbid thoughts  
> \- ominousness wrt Martin's shop


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Lee for beta! 
> 
> In addition to the usual content notes, the end notes will have some spoilers (in rot13) about where I intend to take this story, in case you're worried about/invested in a particular outcome.

"...and so, these are now my rituals: turn the lights on and off five times, touch the toes of my shoes together five times, and say three times, 'Don't look at me.'

"It doesn't really help, but that doesn't mean I can stop."

Jon leans back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly. "Statement ends. Mx. Marciano has not been available for further information: they left their previous address with no forwarding details. Hopefully, if we can't find them, neither can the eyes." He clicks off the tape recorder, takes the tape out, inhales, and sticks a new one in.

"Supplemental: my attempts to go over the Institute's security cameras feed has not gone well." He continues to rattle off the latest results. Like Mx. Marciano's rituals, the act of recording does little to help.

When he gets up from his chair, his bones creak, protesting having sat still for too long. He winces. He gathers his things and walks outside like an old man. The streets are all but deserted at this hour, slick with clammy fog that reminds Jon uncomfortably of statements about the Lukas family.

As a child, Jon used to wander around at night looking at lit windows. Each window had a life behind it, or many lives, and the realization that so many different consciousnesses occupied the world was a source of awe for the younger Jon. He'd often wondered what it would be if he were one of those people, of those lives he caught glimpses of.

Now, the windows are all dark, and it feels like they're the ones looking at Jon. _Serves you right if you do get murdered,_ they seem to say. _Not like you did anything to help any of the other poor bastards in the statements._

Jon shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head. He's sleep deprived and fanciful with it. The windows are just windows. They don't care.

He opens his eyes again, and sees one lit window, above a modest yet cheerful sign: _Pandora's_. Before he makes a conscious decision, he's stood next to the door, fist poised to knock.

As the realization of what he's about to do crashes onto him, Jon recoils. He can't go into the store; light on or not, it must be hours after closing. What is he expecting to find inside, except an irate Martin to tell him off - or worse, take him in out of pity? He turns and walks away.

Behind him, he hears a door opening. "Jon?" Martin calls softly.

Jon stops, but he can't bring himself to turn around.

Martin sighs. "Come in? Please?"

That gets Jon to go to him, slow and halting. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me," he says, in a voice that feels foreign and echoing.

Martin hums. "I'll take that under advisement. In the meanwhile, tea?"

Once again Jon finds himself sat next to the shoe aisle, listening to Martin bustle around in the kitchenette.

"What puts you out on the street at this hour?" Martin says, coming back with a steaming mug. He hands it to Jon and sits across from him. "Working late?"

Jon grimaces. "For my sins." He takes a cautious sip from the tea, and then a longer one. He can feel his shoulders dropping from their hunched posture, the warmth unfurling something in him. "I do apologize for intruding on you at this time of night."

Martin waves this off. "I invited you in, didn't I?" He takes a sip from his own mug. It has fluffy white clouds against a light blue background. "What's on your mind?"

God, where does he even start? Jon rakes a hand through his hair and tries to make a tidy list of all the awful things in his life.

He's stalled by Martin raising a hand. "To clarify, you absolutely don't _have_ to tell me anything. I mean, I'm happy to listen! But if it's upsetting for you and you don't want to, you don't even have to think about it."

Jon's about to snap, _Do you think I have a choice?_ but instead stops and considers. He frowns. "I don't have much else to think about."

"I could offer topics if you like," Martin says. "You could tell me how you found the rope workshop, or I could tell you about other events." He chuckles. "I'm afraid my own topic pool is a little limited, but that's what I have to work with."

Jon _hms_. "The workshop was fine." He looks up at Martin's expectant face and deflates a little. "I'm not sure what else I could say about it."

"Did you enjoy it?" Martin asks. Jon nods. "I'm glad. Do you think you'd be interested in attending more workshops?"

That, Jon can't answer right away. He drinks his tea instead, trying to get a grasp on his thoughts. He liked working with rope alright, would enjoy doing it again but not be heartbroken if he didn't get to. However, that thought does give him a pang, not because of the ropes themselves so much as, "I want to keep coming here." He sounds surprised, probably insultingly so.

Martin doesn't bat an eyelash. "No reason you can't." He pauses. "But if you know what in particular draws you here, that can help me recommend activities that you might enjoy."

Jon casts his gaze to the ceiling. It offers no answers, only a spider scuttling. Jon winces when he spots it.

Martin follows his gaze and winces as well. "Sorry about that. I'll go get a broom and shoo it off."

It makes Jon feel churlish. "It's just a spider. It's far enough away that it shouldn't upset me."

"I don't much like them either." Martin wrinkles his nose, freckles moving fascinatingly. "I used to be quite fond of the little beasts, actually, but got turned off them. I'll just go get that broom."

Jon holds his tongue. Martin's tone does not invite further questions.

The spider successfully shooed away, Martin sits back down. "So, any thoughts?"

Jon casts back his memories. "The sensory aspect was enjoyable," he says slowly. "Visually, the feeling of working with something tangible." Martin nods encouragingly. "And."

Martin waits, patient, eyes gentle on Jon.

Jon swallows. "And. I liked having clear instructions."

Martin makes a soft noise. "That seems hard for you to say."

"It is." Jon shuts his eyes. More accurately, it felt incredibly embarrassing to admit. He isn't a toddler, to need every task fed to him in bite-sized pieces. Even so, he can't deny that it felt good.

Martin spends a moment in consideration, and then his eyes light up. "I believe I have just the thing." He whips out his phone and starts scrolling. "I want to show you pictures of a wax play session," he says.

Jon narrows his eyes. "Nudity?"

"Bare back."

"Fine." He takes the phone from Martin.

As advertized, the picture is of a person's naked back - perhaps Martin, judging by the freckles and paleness - painted in vibrant spots of color. Jon flinches without thinking. "That seems painful. And I don't think the colors would look as nice on me."

"Oh, right, if you want I have pictures of darker-skinned models," Martin says. "The colors absolutely work on them. I was thinking you might prefer to hold the candle, anyway."

Jon hesitates. "I don't believe I would like to hurt my partner, either." He feels painfully boring, admitting this to a kink shop proprietor.

Martin doesn't seem judgemental or scornful, though. "You absolutely don't have to. For completeness' sake, though, I'll note it doesn't have to hurt." He takes in Jon's sceptical expression. "Really! I quite like it. It's soothing, like a heated stone massage. I can enjoy pain, too, but I don't process hot wax as pain at all. Just sensation, a rather enjoyable one." He blushes. "Sorry. That was oversharing, wasn't it?"

"It's alright." To Jon's surprise, he means it. "It's interesting."

Martin brightens. "I'm glad you think so! Anyway, if you decide you're interested, we're hosting a demo next week for wax play - our supplier will come and talk about the candlemaking process, they're really cool."

"Perhaps." Jon hesitates.

Martin picks up on it. "Is everything alright?"

Jon shakes his head. "Just... it sounds like my cue to leave."

"I'm going to be here for another hour at least," Martin says. "I'm going to be busy, but if you want to sit and soak up the ambience, you're more than welcome. I'd enjoy the company." A thoughtful look comes over him. "Actually, if you didn't mind, I've got a bunch of unwound rope; I was just splitting a long one into usable parts. I could teach you to wind them up. It'll help me, and it's useful knowledge to have."

Jon processes this. Martin watches him with guileless eyes. "Let's try," Jon says finally.

The ropes are jute, red and faintly sheening with oil. The texture isn't greasy, though, instead an intriguing mix of smooth and rough. The winding method Martin shows him is fairly straightforward: fold the rope in two, hold up your forearm, make a loop and strangle it with its own tail.

...Possibly Jon's associations aren't great, right now.

"Almost perfect," Martin proclaims his first attempt. "Now try using more rope for the wind-around at the end, yeah?" He watches Jon work with warm approval. "Lovely. Alright, I'm going to take care of some things. No need to actually finish the pile, just let me know when you're done."

Jon nods, and sets about tying up the ropes in neat bundles. The task is repetitive, almost hypnotic: grab both the rope's edges in one hand, draw it until getting to the middle, loop, take the end and loop around the rope, tie it on itself and cinch. Grab another rope and do it all over again.

"Oh, that one came out really well," Martin idly remarks. "You're a quick study."

The words make warmth spread throughout Jon's body, starting with his heated cheeks and reaching his fingertips where they're resting against rough jute. He makes a non-committal noise and keeps working.

Martin talks to himself as he walks around the shop, a quiet and steady stream of words that merge into a murmur like raindrops hitting a roof, gently pattering. The wind picks up outside, howling sharply, but Jon can barely hear it. They are inside, after all, well out of the reach of the cutting cold. The shop is cosy.

Jon's hands feel empty. He looks in front of him, and realizes that the ropes have all been tidied. An odd sense of loss comes into him, and without meaning to, he makes a tiny sound.

Martin hears him. He's by Jon's side in a heartbeat. "Hey, how are you doing?"

"Weird," Jon mumbles. His tongue feels like a foreign object in his mouth. "A little better now." Martin's eyes on him are helping him feel like he's in one piece.

Martin's gaze sharpens. Jon tenses. He doesn't know why, but it feels very important that Martin be happy with him. He lets out a vaguely distressed noise.

At this, Martin's expression softens. "Hey. Hey, you did really well." Jon feels himself swell up with praise. "Why don't you sit back down and finish your tea?"

With the mug in his hands, Jon feels more like himself. The odd, floaty feeling of earlier has blown away like wisps of fog. It is the first time in weeks that his skin hasn't felt too tight for his flesh.

It feels too good, and he doesn't trust it. He focuses on Martin, sitting across from him with a concerned expression, and narrows his eyes. "What did you do to me?"

"Inadvertently put you into subspace," Martin says. He has the decency to wince. At Jon's blank expression, he elaborates, "It's an altered mental state people get from kink scenes."

"You didn't even touch me," Jon says numbly. "How was that a kink scene? Did you know that was going to happen?"

"Not to this extent!" Martin rakes a hand through his hair. "I thought, based on what you said, it might calm you down. Not send you into a trance. I'm sorry, I should have thought about it. Given you more information." He adds, "Anyway, kink doesn't have to involve physical contact."

Jon latches onto that, a concrete piece of information in this baffling occurrence. "How does that work? Kink without touching?"

Martin blinks at him. "Um. There's a bunch of ways. You could sort of cheat and just use an implement, but you can have purely mental sessions. I know people session over Skype, that works for some. Is that what you want to focus on right now?"

Jon puts down his mug, leans back with his eyes shut and massages his temples. "I don't know."

He hears Martin exhale. "I'll call you a taxi," he says, with an air of finality. "I'll need to close up soon, and you can't go on public transport still addled." In a gentler tone, he adds, "Is it okay if I call you tomorrow, to check on you?"

Jon nods and gets up. He's stopped by Martin loudly _ahem_ ing, taking out his mobile and waggling it at Jon; sheepishly, he takes Martin's phone and enters his own number. He takes an awkward number of seconds trying to decide what to call himself - "Jon from the shop"? "Jon who's trying not to be a creep"? "Jon, accidental scene"? He ends up putting his full name and shoving the phone back at Martin.

* * *

Jon wakes up feeling very strange. He brushes his teeth trying to place the feeling: like something's missing, but in a nice way. It takes him all the way to the tube station before it hits him that he's not afraid. 

He wonders for a moment if he'd simply gone mad. He carefully thinks of Gertrude's demise, of Jane Prentiss, like prodding at an injury. He remembers those things, and they are awful, but...

But right now, the rain is gently running down his umbrella, and the overcast sky covers the world like a blanket. Trees shake in the wind, and their dark branches are stark and beautiful against the cloud cover. 

_Gertrude doesn't care,_ Jon reminds himself savagely, _and neither will you when you're dead._

The wind keeps whistling, and the cold is bracing. The world looks real in a way it hasn't for a long time. Like a reality that matters for itself, not like a lid to be pried off to reveal the squirming, awful truth. 

Jon feels like a tossed coin that landed balanced on its side, wobbling. Like everything he sees is an optical illusion: both a rabbit and a duck, both a lady and a crone. A world where what happened to Gertrude, what happened to _him_ , is real; and so are rain and trees and unexpectedly kind shopkeepers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers (put [here to decode](https://rot13.com/)): 
> 
> Va guvf svp, Znegva vfa'g rivy be jro-nyvtarq - ur'f urycvat n ivpgvz bs gur jro (jub vf va uvf onfrzrag) naq gelvat gb uryc bguref nf jryy. Ur vf hc gb fbzr furanavtnaf, ohg abg rivy. 
> 
> In this chapter:  
> \- OCD rituals (supernatural and otherwise)  
> \- inadvertent kink scene (non-sexual) and ensuing subspace


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to Lee for beta!!

Martin calls just before noon. "I'm fine," Jon says, as soon as he recognizes Martin's voice. He doesn't think mentioning his weird mood of earlier would help.

"That's good to hear," Martin says. "If you want to talk about it more, I'm free for lunch in about an hour."

Jon hesitates. He would, in fact, strongly prefer not to talk about it. Despite this, he wants to see Martin. He abruptly names the lunch place he usually frequents, and barely waits for Martin to agree before hanging up.

He buries his face in his hands. Fuck, what's going on with him? Maybe Martin's right, and all that happened is Jon's neurochemistry going wild. If he'd have received his own story in a statement just a few months ago, he'd have been quick to dismiss it as the product of lack of sleep and general anxiety. Some well-placed denial, as well, attributing his own desire to engage in intimacy with another person to supernatural causes.

To be fair, if one listened to Georgie, one might conclude Jon striving for intimacy _is_ the product of supernatural causes.

He shakes his head and gets back to work. The horrors beyond human ken aren't going to file themselves.

* * *

Martin's already there when Jon gets to the restaurant. Usually Jon gets take-away. It's a bit odd to eat his lunch sat down at the place.

Nevertheless, the food is good and they're tucked away in a quiet corner.

The first words out of Martin’s mouth are, “Are you alright?”

Jon laughs humorlessly. “No.”

Martin’s mouth flattens into a tight line. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a low voice. He exhales and shakes his head, coming out with another kind smile. “If you want to go, or for me to leave, that’s okay and I will.”

Jon blinks. Okay, that wasn’t quite the direction he had in mind. “No,” he says. “I mean, I’m not alright. But I haven’t been in a long time.” He takes a deep breath. “I think, this morning, I felt better than I have since…” he shuts his mouth, then adds, “for a while.”

“Oh.” There’s a light, now, in Martin’s eyes. Jon really doesn’t want to see it extinguished again. “I’m sorry it’s like that, then, and I’m glad I could help.” He leans his chin on his hand. “Look, I wanted to meet up so I could check on you and maybe offer some suggestions for what you could do next.” 

Jon’s mind latches on to that last part. “Like what?”

Martin hums. “Well, it seems like you might enjoy submission. We have a munch coming up next week - that’s a social meetup for kinky people, no actual sex or kink involved.”

“I know what a munch is,” Jon mumbles. “I’ve done reading.” He hunches his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d like that.”

Martin’s expression gains that infuriatingly understanding edge. “If there’s anything I can do to make our munches feel safer for you--”

“I don’t feel unsafe,” Jon bites out. “That’s just not what I want.”

Martin’s gaze turns piercing, but at least that wretched understanding that tastes like pity is gone. “Alright. What do you want, then?”

It’s hard to say, because Jon genuinely doesn’t know. Except, “How I felt last night. I want that again.”

“I thought so, which I why I suggested the munch,” Martin says. “It’s a good place to meet a like-minded partner.”

Something in Jon snaps. “I don’t want some stranger,” he says. “I want…” Soft, freckled skin, criss-crossed with rope. A voice that warmed him to the bone. Shelter from the rain, and a cup of tea pressed firmly into his hands. “You. I want you.”

Martin blinks wide eyes at him. After a minute of staring, he croaks out, “That’s not a very good idea.”

Jon narrows his eyes at Martin. “If you’re not interested, just say so. I can take a rejection.”

Martin flails. “That’s not it! God, that’s not it at all.” He swallows. “It’s just… you see patterns when you hang around the scene for long enough, y’know? An experienced dom taking on an inexperienced submissive partner, it’s…” He considers. “It’s a power imbalance.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Not in real life, no.” Martin exhales. “Some would disagree with me, but that’s not what I’m after. I want to know my partner feels--”

“Safe?”

Martin ducks his head, cheeks pinkening. “I know, I’m a bit of a parody of myself.”

Jon is hit by a pang of conscience. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Hey, no, you didn’t.” Martin huffs a little laugh. “I’m flattered! But, Jon, you just found the kink scene and I’m the first person you met. Don’t you want to explore your options a bit more?”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware I proposed marriage,” he says.

For a moment, Martin looks blank. Then he chuckles. “Touché. I…” he fusses a bit with his fork’s placement relative to the plate. “I wasn’t expecting you to show an interest in me. I’m not sure what to do, honestly.”

“Say yes or say no,” Jon says. “It’s not complicated.” At Martin’s raised eyebrows, Jon sags. “Alright, I suppose it is.”

Martin lets out a breath. “I want to think about it,” he says. “I’ll be frank: I like you. I like you a lot, and I think we could be compatible in some ways. You should know, though, that I’m not monogamous. I have play partners I’ve been with for years, and I’m not about to end those relationships because I started playing with someone new.”

“I don’t have sex,” Jon says, “if we’re putting our cards on the table.”

Martin nods equably. “Right, and you don’t like giving or receiving pain. You do like orders, and sensory stuff. Correct?” 

Jon nods.

Martin’s expression softens. “Look, what’s really important to me is that I want to be a resource you have, at least until you have better ones. So whether I’ve decided or not, even if I decide I don’t want us to become play partners, I want to be there for you if you need me.”

Jon closes his eyes tightly and takes a ragged breath. “Thanks,” he says, when he can trust his voice to be steady. “I. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Martin says. “D’you want to take a break and I’ll tell you about the shit one of our impact toy suppliers tried to pull?”

“Yes,” Jon says, with gratitude, and lets Martin carry the conversation for the rest of the meal.

As the waiter puts down the check, Martin doodles on his napkin with the complimentary pen. Abruptly, he says, “What if we went more modular? Play partners is a bit of a big term for me. How about, if you feel like you need to let go, call me and I’ll see if I can help?”

Jon nods, relief like cool water in his veins.

* * *

_I have to stop doing this_. Jon shuts his eyes and listens to the dial sound. If he focuses on it, he doesn’t ask himself whether that’s a calliope he hears in the distance.

Martin answers after five rings, sounding out of breath. “Sorry, I was in the basement. Are you alright?”

“No, I called you at midnight just to chat,” Jon snaps. Then he winces. “Sorry. I… sorry.”

“No harm done,” Martin says easily. “What do you need?” Like it’s that simple.

Maybe, for once, it can be. “I’m still at work. I’m… not doing well. If I came by the shop, would you have anything for me to do?”

“I have a few ideas. When should I expect you?”

And so it is that Jon finds himself in the shop again. This time, Martin tasks him with sorting the candles by color. “Really,” Jon says, dry as dust.

“If you don’t want to,” Martin starts saying.

“No, I do, I do,” Jon says hurriedly.

Martin gives him a small smile. “I could figure out something else if you don’t.” His voice is so gentle that Jon feels he ought to rankle at it, but he can’t bring himself to. “We still barely know each other.”

“Sorry,” Jon mutters.

Martin’s brow furrows. “What for?”

Jon rubs his face. “Being - difficult, I suppose.”

“Okay, one important lesson about the kink community: everyone has their own needs, wants, limits and preferences. If someone makes you feel like learning yours is a burden, they are a jerk and you’re better off without them,” Martin says. Jon can’t help smiling at him. “What?”

“Truly you’re a danger to new people in the community,” Jon says, deadpan.

Martin doesn’t laugh, though. He fixes Jon with a serious gaze. “A lot of shitty people know how to make pretty speeches about consent and respect. Don’t trust what I say, look at what I do.”

_Like giving me an out at every interaction,_ Jon thinks. _Like taking care of me._ “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Right. In that case, if you have no objections,” Martin gestures at the candles, “hop to it.”

Jon takes a deep breath and starts.

The candles are a fascinating array of different colors. Some have glitter, which Jon imagines must be impossible to get off completely. Jon starts with the most obvious ones, the blues and reds and purples that are almost black on one end, the plain white ones on the other. The candles aren’t scented, which Jon appreciates, since at this range they’d give him a headache if they were. 

In the background, Martin speaks softly about hue and saturation. It mostly glides by Jon’s ears, except for Martin’s rueful acknowledgement that everything he knows, he learned from a former colleague who was an art student. Jon knows even less, and at any rate the words aren’t what matters.

What matters is the tone, drowning out anything else, keeping Jon in a snug little bubble where nothing can get to him. The candles blur together into a long spectrum, and Jon picks out the ones that stand out to him and slot them where they fit better. Then there’s nothing left except a gap between the pink and yellow pastels, and a slightly jarring shift from glittery green to deep blue, with nothing to add to it. 

Martin doesn’t touch him, but he stands close enough that Jon feels his warmth. “Very good,” Martin says. Jon momentarily closes his eyes in numb contentment, then opens them again to see the colors.

“Sit down,” Martin tells him softly. “You’ve done a good job. Just look at the candles, and relax. You deserve to.”

In the hush of the shop, sheltered by the sound of Martin’s voice, Jon can almost believe that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- relationship negotiation  
> \- gentle, nonsexual submission


	6. Chapter 6

“How are you?” Martin’s voice is hushed, like he doesn’t want to disturb Jon.

Jon shuts his eyes, not yet ready to admit the world, and rubs his temples. “Tired.” That’s less an immediate answer and more an interminable state of being, but it’s true. “Feels…” it’s that optical illusion feeling, the coin balanced on its side. “I could either panic or be filled with joy, and I still don’t know which one to pick.”

Martin sits down a hand’s width away from him. He’s warm, and Jon wants to lean into him. “What’s panic got going for it?”

“Seems more… honest, I suppose.” Reluctantly, Jon opens his eyes. In the light of the shop, he sees no lurking shadows, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. “What’s the use of feeling good now if tomorrow I’m going to be shot dead?”

“What’s the use of being miserable now, if you’re going to die?” Martin counters. “If you’ve got limited time, you might as well enjoy yourself.”

Jon’s mouth tightens. “Not everyone can afford to turn off reality, even for an hour.”

“Are you talking about yourself, here? Or about other people? Just so I know whether to launch into the ‘self-care is maintenance work’ lecture, or the ‘put your oxygen mask on first’ one.”

“Why do you have prepared lectures about those things?” Jon stares into the corner of the shop. There are some spiderwebs there. Didn’t he see Martin clean up earlier, from the corner of his eye?

Martin exhales. “You know, that’s a good question.”

Jon turns his head, glancing at Martin. “That doesn’t sound like I’m getting an answer.”

Martin leans back, looking at the ceiling. “Let’s just say, I had to deal with a lot of personal crises in the time I’ve owned the shop.” His hand twitches, and he crosses his arms. “So, which?”

“Both,” Jon admits with a sigh. “People _died_ , Martin.”

“I know, and that’s awful. Even so. We’re still alive. We might as well act like it.” Martin lets out a breath. “Look, it goes without saying that you don’t have to play again at all, and definitely not with me. But if your reason is that you think you should be unhappy… well, I disagree with the basic premise, here.” He pauses. “And you were talking about a break from reality, earlier. But what we just did - that _is_ reality, or part of it anyway. If you felt good for an hour, that doesn’t make it less real than you being miserable.”

Jon’s fist clenches weakly in his lap. “Just - what’s the point? What difference does it make, when you have a, an entire ocean of awfulness, what good is trying to empty it with a bucket?”

“Maybe it’s not a bucket,” Martin says softly. “Maybe it’s a raft. It’s small, and rickety, maybe. And you ask what good is it? To the person on top of it, it’s the difference between drowning and making it through.”

Jon snorts. “Drowning today or drowning tomorrow.”

Martin shrugs. “Still better than drowning today. Can I tell you a story about a pillow?”

That gets Jon to turn his head and stare at Martin.

Martin grins. “I’ll take that as a yes. So, a few years ago, I wasn’t doing so well financially. And for reasons that aren’t relevant at this point, I didn’t have a proper bed to sleep on. I had a sofa, and I had a pillow that was older than me. Plus I had to wake up every two or three hours, again for reasons that aren’t relevant right now.”

Jon continues to stare, unblinking.

Martin continues without a hitch. “Every now and then, I’d think about buying a new pillow. But what would be the point? I would be even poorer, and I’d still sleep like crap, and-- other bad things in my life would still be bad.”

“Let me guess,” Jon says, bitter taste in his mouth. “You bought that pillow, and everything turned around.”

“Well - no. What happened is, I kept going like that for a while. Then that old pillow finally died beyond resurrection, and I thought, fine, I didn’t need a pillow anyway. And then,” Martin shifts where he’s sitting, “I was tired and cross and I yelled at someone I cared about when I really, really shouldn’t have. 

“And I stormed out of the flat and bought myself a new goddamned pillow.” He holds up a hand. “And everything was still shit. I still couldn’t sleep for more than two hours at a time. But the two hours I got were a little better, and I could be a little more patient, and eventually we clawed ourselves back out of that entire situation. It had nothing to do with the pillow, yeah, but while I had it I was just a tiny bit happier.”

Martin exhales.

“And that mattered. Some days, it was the difference between giving up and watching everything go down in flames, and carrying on.” He turns his face to Jon.

Jon opens his mouth to dissect that little anecdote into dust. Then he closes his mouth, ashamed. Martin has been kind to him. The least Jon can do is not shit on that. Awkwardly, he says, "I don't think that applies to my situation."

"Maybe it doesn't. In that case, sorry for rambling." Martin gives him a quick smile. To Jon's relief, he doesn't look too contrite. "How are you feeling now?"

"I..." Jon struggles for words. What comes out is, "I feel good."

Martin's smile comes out like the moon rising, slow and beautiful and gentle. "I'm glad."

Jon hesitates, because at the same time, he... he doesn't know. "But... maybe like something's missing."

Martin's expression turns thoughtful. Then he says, "Would you like a hug?"

Jon unwounds his arms from where he'd wrapped them around his own torso. "I think I would," he says, much to his own surprise.

Martin opens his arms, and Jon shuffles in. He smells like sweat, a little, and laundry detergent. Hugging him feels like he always thought coming into a freshly made bed ought to feel, warm and welcoming. Sadly, Jon's actual experience with beds has mostly involved hating them passionately after tossing and turning for too many hours. "You're better than a bed," Jon mumbles, and would promptly flee at the realization he'd just said that if he weren't so bloody comfortable.

Martin only chuckles. His breath stirs Jon's hair.

Jon shivers. "If you wanted to pet my hair," he says, with desperately fake nonchalance, "I wouldn't mind."

Thankfully, Martin takes it as an invitation. Jon melts, closing his eyes. He could honestly fall asleep right here, standing up. It feels like it would be a better sleep than he'd gotten in ages.

* * *

"So," Martin says, spearing a cherry tomato on his fork. "Do you want physical contact to feature in our scenes?" He studies Jon's face, and adds, "There's no wrong answer here. And you can change your answer at any time."

Jon sighs. "I think contact should be fine." His chest feels hollow. It was better when he was pressed against Martin. He swallows and admits, "I'd like that."

"Lovely. What kinds?" As Jon blinks up at him, Martin elaborates. "Are hugs okay in general? Where do you want me to touch you? Where do you want to touch me? Do you need a light touch, or a firm one? I don't expect all the answers now, but give me some broad strokes."

Jon looks away. Outside the window, people roam the street. "I liked it when you touched my hair. I liked the hug." He doesn't wrap his arms around himself. "Not... not my chest, not my genitals, not my arse."

"No bathing suit areas, then," Martin says. "And I suppose you also wouldn't want to touch mine? That's perfectly okay," he hastens to say. "Just making certain." Jon nods. "Mm. Touching your shoulders or your back?" Jon shrugs, self-conscious. "I'll chalk that as a no, then."

Embarrassed, Jon nonetheless speaks up. "I. I'd like that. I just...." he trails off. There is a brief lull in foot traffic, and pigeons have come to peck at the sidewalk. 

"I don't know you that well yet," Martin says. "I'd rather be careful than hurt you. But if you do want that, then we can do that." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world.

Jon's a little dizzy. "What about you? What do you want?" He forces himself to look back at Martin.

"Telling you what to do has been good so far," Martin says, matter-of-factly. "If we can incorporate more touching, I'd like that. Hm. How do you feel about sitting in my lap?" He watches Jon sputter. "Is that a no, or an _I'm too embarrassed to say yes_?" Before Jon can get his hackles up, Martin says, "How about, instead of saying out loud, you give me thumbs up or thumbs down?"

Jon attempts a thumbs up. It's... easier, though he feels a little silly. Makes it more possible to say, "Yeah," so Martin doesn't think he's just trying the gesture out. 

"Wonderful." Martin sounds so warm, so satisfied. Jon gives a little shiver.

He startles when Martin snaps his fingers in front of him.

"I doubt you want to space out when you have to go back to work after lunch," Martin says. He sounds amused, but still so warm. Jon shakes himself, keeps from sinking into his voice, but it takes a shameful amount of effort. "Anyway. Is it okay, if I have new ideas, to suggest them on the spot? Do you think you could say no, if I brought them up just before a scene? We can always do something different if you don't like it."

"Yes," Jon says, voice low and hoarse. He clears his throat and says again, "Yes. I believe I can do that."

He tries not to let Martin's smile lull him into a false sense of safety. Not here, with the staff and other patrons watching; not when he has to go into the office and pretend not to hear the whispers that spring up around him.

* * *

The first sign Jon notices that something's wrong is when Martin drops his mug.

In hindsight, he should have known. Martin was paler than usual, his freckles stark against the rest of his skin. His hands were shaking, which was probably the cause for the mug's demise. Martin kept darting glances around and flinching at shadows.

The shards of the mug lie on the floor. Dry, thankfully: it had been empty. Martin curses and starts trying to pick up the pieces with his hands. 

"Let me," Jon says, and stares at Martin until he sits down. He fetches a broom and a pan, and sets about clearing up the wreckage. Jon's no good at telling when people are upset, but he's a dab hand at sweeping a floor. 

"I'm sorry," Martin says, voice shaky. "This isn't the welcome I meant to offer you."

Jon keeps quiet until the floor's swept clean, thankful for the excuse to think. "If you're not up for seeing me tonight," he says, hesitant, having to forcibly dislodge the words from his throat, "I could go home." He doesn't _want_ to go home, doesn't want to spend the entire way there checking whether every door he passes was there yesterday. But he can't very well impose on Martin, who'd been so kind already.

Martin's eyes widen. "No! I mean, if you want, of course you can go. But I would much prefer you stayed." He sighs, then looks thoughtful. "I might have to make some adjustments to my plans."

Jon, after dumping the shards carefully into a plastic bag, tying it up and binning it, raises an eyebrow. 

Martin hums. "How about," he says, "you went into the kitchenette and made me tea?"

"Alright," Jon says, dubious. If it makes Martin feel better, he supposes he could do that. He goes and tries to make sense of the kitchen cabinets. 

Turns out, there's no need for him to poke around. Martin doesn't stand up, but the area is small enough that Jon can hear him perfectly when he says, "First door on your right, bottom shelf. That's where I keep the mugs." Martin similarly directs him through finding the tea, honey and milk. The kettle’s boiled already, so Jon just has to pour in the water.

"Straws in the first drawer," Martin says. "Put one in the mug."

Jon does, but he finds himself frowning, finds a bit of sharpened awareness piercing through the soft fog Martin's woven around him with nothing but his voice. "Won't the plastic melt?"

"It won't," Martin says, with authority. "Bring it here."

Jon obeys, and he can't deny that doing exactly like Martin says feels good, feels _right_. He does ask, "Why do you have straws in your kitchenette?"

"How do you think we get people to drink when they're tied up?" Martin bows his head and takes a sip through the straw. Jon, still holding the mug, suppresses a shiver as Martin gives a happy sigh. "Here, sit down next to me. Keep holding the mug, please; I think we saw I can't be trusted with one at the moment."

The sweet fog of doing as he’s told dissipates as Martin drinks. In its wake, Jon feels more centered, able to think. “What happened?”

Martin sighs again, much less happy this time. Before Jon can flinch, Martin puts his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “No, it’s okay. Thank you for asking. Just an unpleasant situation, not your fault.”

Jon’s instincts tell him to leave it alone, that Martin likely doesn’t want to talk about it. Jon’s instincts for interpersonal communication are shit. He repeats, “What happened?”

“A friend of mine is in a bad way.” Martin shuts his eyes briefly. “It’s the kind of thing where the end is a foregone conclusion. Still, we do what we can to delay it. His condition worsened a bit today - not anybody’s fault, nothing anyone could have done.”

That tone is familiar. “But you still feel like it’s your fault.”

Martin blows out a frustrated breath. “You’d think I’d get used to futility, you know? To knowing I can only do so much. Slow it down, make him comfortable. It just doesn’t feel like enough.” The sound he emits next is suspiciously sob-like. “I wish I could do more, but none of it is enough.”

Jon can relate to the gnawing urgency of wanting to _fix_ what’s hurting his friend, feels it in his breast bone right now. “I’m sorry,” he says, stilted and inadequate. 

“Yeah,” Martin says softly. “I’m sorry too.” His shoulders slump. “Some days… no, nevermind.”

Jon cautiously leans against him, careful not to jostle the mug too much. “Some days, what?”

“I keep trying. But no matter how much I do, it’s not enough. People always need more and one day I won’t be able to keep it up.” Martin laughs, and now there’s definitely tears in it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting this on you.”

Jon’s not in a place to argue that Martin’s small kindnesses help, exactly. He’s barely sure he believes it himself, much as he wants to. But he has to say, “I don’t know about enough. But what you’ve done - that doesn’t disappear.”

“You’d be surprised,” Martin says, low and dejected.

“I don’t mean your work can’t be undone,” Jon says. “But you still did it, for however long it lasted. It happened. I can’t talk about what matters, I honestly don’t know, but I can say that what you did, you’ve done it. It’s a fact. You can’t change it short of time travel.” With his free hand, he clutches at his hair. “I’m not making any sense at all, am I?”

“I think you are,” Martin says softly. “Even if I can’t do it forever, while I could, I helped, in what way I could. And I do believe that matters.” 

“You helped me,” Jon says, determined to push the notion through.

Martin gives him a tremulous smile. “Thank you.”

Jon averts his eyes. “Drink your tea.”

They spend the rest of the hour in silence. After the tea’s finished and the mug’s put away, Jon finds himself leaning into Martin’s solidity, Martin’s arm slung around his waist. 

Eventually Martin stretches. For a minute, Jon thinks about pretending to be asleep, just so he doesn’t have to move away, but of course that’s silly. “Closing up?” he asks instead.

Martin shakes his head. “I need to check on something in the basement.” He accompanies Jon outside, though, and waits with him for his taxi to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- discussion of despair, futility, and oblique reference to terminal disease  
> \- more nonsexual kink and kink negotiations
> 
> The end is coming up! aaaa. I might end up splitting the final chapter, so be aware the next chapter might not actually be the last one. We shall see. Thank you all so much for sticking with me so far!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to code16 for much needed construction advice, and to twodrunkcelestials for looking at the draft <3

It’s late, but it’s been a satisfying day. The statements Jon has found today all recorded digitally without a hitch. He’s feeling fine, not even particularly worried about ending up like Gertrude.

Despite this, his hand itches to grab his phone and call Martin, which makes him feel guilty. Martin didn’t give Jon his number to be bothered at all hours just because Jon wanted a _chat_.

...Or did he?

Jon’s hand hesitates, hanging in midair. Martin called Jon a play partner. That meant something other than “charity case”. But even so, surely Jon shouldn’t call so late without a pressing reason. 

No. He’ll call tomorrow, at a normal hour, like a normal person. Jon puts his hand down, takes a deep breath, and fortifies himself for the journey home.

When his phone beeps, he nearly falls on his face in his hurry to answer it, only to see a spam text message. He deletes it with prejudice and stares at his phone, willing it to ring. It does not.

_Just a text_ , Jon bargains with himself. _He can answer me tomorrow. Just so I can go home and stop thinking about this._

The text he pens is short and to the point: _We haven’t talked in a few days, and I wondered how you’re doing. I’m well._

Not two minutes later, his phone chirps. This time, Jon is more cautious fishing it out, and tries to quell his own expectations. Despite himself, he smiles when he sees Martin’s name on the display.

_good! still at the shop. u still at work? ur welcome to come by_

After wincing at the grammar, Jon composes a reply. If he goes home now, he’ll only pace the living room floor for three more hours, anyway.

* * *

Jon arrives at the shop to find Martin elbow-deep in packing peanuts, rooting for - he explains, when he notices Jon - a glass dildo.

“Well, you wouldn’t want it to break,” Jon says faintly.

“Right, but this is really overkill.” Martin stands up and brushes dust and styrofoam off his shirt. “Never mind that. You look good.” He sounds pleased, and a little surprised. 

Jon shrugs. “It’s been an acceptable day.” He adds, “I don’t… tonight, I’m not as much in need of your aid as I usually am.”

Martin nods. “Okay, but do you _want_ to? This isn’t therapy, Jon. There’s a reason we call it _play_.”

Without the choking weight of stress to force it out of him, Jon has a harder time giving assent. He nods, instead, and hopes that’s enough.

Martin’s expression turns thoughtful. "I want to try something different," he says, and sits down on their customary bench, few steps away. "If you'd like, I want you to go to your knees and come to me like that."

Jon stays where he is, wary. "Why?" He bites his lip. If people like giving instructions, surely they don't like them being questioned. But he needs to know.

"I think it might put you in a more relaxed mental state," Martin says. "If it doesn't, then the worst that happens is we both feel a bit silly. I mopped the floors just before you came in," he adds. 

Slowly, slowly, Jon descends to his knees. He puts a tentative hand forward, glancing at Martin. "Yes," Martin says, "like that. Come on, another step. Come to me."

Martin keeps talking as Jon makes slow progress. "You're doing just as I asked. Very good." His voice is low and gentle, and Jon's eyes want to flutter shut. He keeps going, focusing on Martin's feet.

"There you are," Martin says when Jon reaches him. "Here." He passes Jon a pillow. "Put that under your knees." He puts his hand over Jon's head and pulls it to his thigh. Not forceful, but firm.

Jon resists, just to see what will happen.

"You don't have to," Martin says, still in the same voice. "But I'd like you to lay your head on my lap. Nothing bad will happen. You're welcome here."

Jon lets Martin move him, shivering and not knowing why.

Martin’s hand sinks into his hair, and Jon closes his eyes and feels. Martin is so solid, so real. Jon’s hands creep up to hug Martin’s shins. Martin keeps speaking to him softly, words Jon can’t quite make out.

Finally, after an eternity that’s still somehow too short, Martin gently cups Jon’s face. “I want to look at you,” he says. He only gives the barest ghost of a push, more guidance than force, and Jon goes with him, eyes still shut. He feels Martin’s gaze like the sun on his skin.

“Lovely.” Martin’s voice echoes in the shop. “You’re so lovely. Thank you for trusting me, Jon.”

Jon’s eyes snap open. The words feel like an icy knife plunged into his heart. He jerks back from Martin and nearly falls over. He looks around him wildly. All he can see is the shop, the same as every other time he’d been there. A quiet place, a place where horrors aren’t.

But he can’t trust that. He can’t trust anything, or anyone; the horrors are everywhere, and trust is what will lead Jon to his downfall.

“Jon?” Martin is looking at him, brow creased. He makes no move to touch Jon. “What’s wrong?”

Jon shakes his head, overwhelmed.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. “I don’t know what I did, but I apologize, and I’d be very glad if you told me what it was so I don’t repeat it.”

But that’s wrong, that’s worse. Because, to Jon’s growing horror, he isn’t afraid of Martin. He’s afraid _for_ him.

He doesn’t know a way to explain that wouldn’t sound like the raving of a madman. “You wouldn’t understand.” He rakes his hands through his hair, which Martin so recently touched. “I can’t-- I shouldn’t.”

“Would you let me try? Please. I want to try.” Martin’s voice is so gentle.

Jon wants to tear that gentleness apart. It has no place in the life he leads. “You don’t know anything.” He hates the harshness in his voice, how necessary it is. “You think the world is a kind place? You have no idea.”

Quietly, Martin says, “I think the world is a place where kindness has meaning.”

“But it doesn’t.” Jon shuts his eyes tightly. “I wish it did. But there’s no use wishing. You just don’t understand.” He gestures at his face. “You see these scars? I got them because a woman turned into a living hive of filth came into my workplace and sent worms to make everyone like her. All of this,” he gestures around him blindly. “In a world where _that_ can happen, what good is it?”

For a few moments, Martin is silent. Jon tenses and waits - he doesn’t know for what. More platitudes? To be thrown out of the store?

What Martin does, eventually, is sigh. “I think,” he says, “it’s time I showed you the basement.”

* * *

As they descend the spiral staircase, Martin says, “I want you to be prepared. And to remember that, however upsetting you find what you see - it’s not the fault of anyone here. Least of all him.”

“Who is he?” Jon demands. Icy bile rises in his throat. 

“I think I’ll let him introduce himself,” Martin says, as they reach the floor. “Hey,” he calls out into the darkness. “I brought Jon, remember, I told you about him?”

Spiders skitter across the floor. Jon eyes them with apprehension. It’s easier than looking at that darkness the light doesn’t touch.

But he can just make out the voice in the darkness saying, “I remember. Hello, Jon.”

Martin steps deeper inside. “I’m about to turn on the torch, if that’s okay?” He waits a moment, presumably for objections. When none come, he says, “So, uh, you might want to close your eyes.”

Jon keeps them open. He flinches at the sudden light, blinking despite himself. Then, when he’s accustomed to it, he looks and flinches again.

On the vast spider web covering the back wall of the basement, Jon can just about make the shape of a man nearly cocooned in it. His face is free, as is his right arm and his left foot. It’s enough to tell that the man is Black. Spiders crawl over him with impunity. 

Jon thinks of running, turns his face back to the staircase. Martin isn’t in his way, standing between him and the web-encased man. There’s nothing stopping Jon from leaving and trying his best to forget he ever saw this. 

But he doesn’t know what’s happening, and if Jon had been able to choose safety over curiosity, his life would have been very different. 

The man looks up. His face is weathered; he looks several decades older than Jon. “Nice to meet you, Jon,” he says. “Name’s Dekker.”

* * *

Martin has to go catch Jon when his knees nearly give way. “I’ll go fetch a chair, shall I? Leave you two to talk,” he says, once Jon is stable again, giving him the torch. 

Jon wants to keep Martin in his sight, an irrational urge he can’t place, but there are things he needs to know. “I heard your name. Gertrude Robinson mentioned you, in her tapes.”

“I worked with her, once upon a time.” Dekker surveys him. “Your predecessor, I’m lead to understand. I was sorry to hear about her passing.”

“Do you know who killed her?” Jon demands.

Dekker shakes his head. “I would help if I could. As you see, I’m,” he shrugs beneath the white shroud, “a little tied up.” 

Which leads to the next question. “What happened to you?”

Another shrug. “Do the details really matter? You must know the shape of these stories by now. I tried to take on the Mother of Puppets. It didn’t go so well for me.”

“Who’s the mother of puppets?” Jon demands, nearing hysteria. 

Dekker shakes his head sorrowfully. “You really don’t know, do you?”

* * *

By the time Martin comes back with the chair, Jon has learned about the neat division of fears, his mind feeling fit to burst. He sits down with gratitude. “Alright,” he says, “but none of this explains why you’re _here_. What does this place have to do with any of it?” He belatedly remembers Sarah Sinclair’s statement. “Is the store… aligned with any of them?” 

“Hey,” Martin says, with feeling.

“Oh, they tried,” Dekker says. “They’re still trying. The spiders talk to me, you know. Telling me it doesn’t have to end like this.”

“And what do you do then?” Jon says, apprehensive.

Dekker smiles, a beatific expression. “I tell them to crawl back to the hell from which they came.”

“That’s great,” Jon says, after a few false starts, “but I still don’t understand why a kink shop has a giant spider web tucked in its basement.”

“Honestly? That’s just how it happened.” Dekker gives a dry chuckle. “Initially, this basement was where I crawled to die. And where Martin found me.”

“I was a shop assistant back then,” Martin says. “It was kind of a seedy sex shop at the time.”

“Not my first choice of places to pass away, but such it is. Then Martin and I hatched our little scheme.” Dekker chuckles again. “If you’ll pardon the choice of words.”

“What scheme?” Jon demands.

“I had some money put away,” Dekker says. “And I knew I had only days left, at best, as things were. The idea of starving the fears away was mine, but Martin did most of the implementation.”

Jon blinks. “What?”

“The entities feed on fear - they _are_ fear. So, to escape their presence, we tried to create a space where there was as little fear as possible. Martin bought the shop from its previous owner, and did everything in his ability to turn it into a place where people felt safe.” Dekker waves his free hand. “Judging by the fact that I still haven’t been turned into a giant spider creature, I have to assume we succeeded.” 

“But you can’t keep fear out,” Jon says. “Not entirely. Not forever.”

“But partially, and for a while, yes,” Martin says. “And that matters, is what I believe.” He turns to Jon, and softly says, “If all I can do is create somewhere where people don’t have to be afraid - even for an evening, even for an hour - that’s worth it. That’s worth everything.”

“It’s not enough,” Jon whispers.

“It won’t save the world, if that’s what you mean,” Dekker says. “But from my perspective, it’s a definite improvement.”

Jon shakes his head slowly. He walks out. Nothing stops him.

* * *

After getting home, Jon takes out his phone to check his alarm for tomorrow. Today, actually, but why split hairs?

There’s a text notification from Martin.

Jon opens it with trembling hands, but all it says is, _please let me know if you got home okay._

The word fills him with bitterness. _Okay_ , ha. He hadn’t been okay in a very long time. 

Except that’s not quite right. Or it is, but… those moments in Martin’s shop, putting aside his burdens for a moment to float in Martin’s warm regard - moreover, the mornings after, when he’d felt sharp and present and _real_ \- those were as close to okay as he remembers being since he’d got the head Archivist position. 

And all that time, Martin had known. He’d known about the lurking evils that Jon still doesn’t understand, and gave no sign of it. In the face of that, how can Jon believe anything he says?

A memory strikes. _Don’t listen to what I say, look at what I do._

What Martin did was keep secrets. But so did Jon. When Jon shared some of his secrets, so did Martin. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jon feels on the cusp of - something. Some choice he doesn’t understand fully, but that he has to make now. What matters more? What’s more important, those moments of happiness in Martin’s shop, or the dread horror lurking beneath it all?

Jon undresses and lies down. His thoughts settle, and he makes his choice.

* * *

Two days later, Jon hears Dekker’s name in another statement. Three days, and he finds the tapes in Sasha’s desk.

What used to be Sasha’s desk.

The thing that isn’t Sasha came from the table that they still have in Artefact Storage. Jon could go there and destroy it. It would be easy. 

He hesitates. He opens his office door to see Tim pointedly not working. “Would you come in in five minutes?” he asks him. He waits for Tim’s reluctant nod before shutting the door and taking out his phone.

“Hello,” he says, when Martin answers the phone. “I just realized something very bad is going on, and I need help.”

“Of course,” Martin says softly. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Spiders & web shenanigans (not happening to Jon)  
> \- Nonsexual kink
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read this, and double thanks to anyone who kudos'd or commented!

**Author's Note:**

> \- character accidentally inserting himself into sexually explicit situations and being vaguely shocked by this  
> \- stalking is canon-typical paranoia-induced stalking on Jon's behalf, mostly of Tim, without romantic intentions or expectations.  
> \- terms used for Martin's genitals in this fic include vagina and vulva.


End file.
